It was that time once again. I was packing. All my clothes, stuff. All my memories of this place and the places before this. It’s a curse, but I can’t help it. I must. Otherwise the thoughts which succeed the excitement of a new place will eat me whole. Eat me up, digest me, burn all my defences with the bile juice and leave me an ugly mess, a man so broken and so dirty, everyone, including him, are repulsed at the sight of it. I’d rather be a nomad than such a man.
In recent times, I’ve taken up looking for writing topics which are simple, and can be interpreted as abstractly as possible, from all over the internet, suggestions from friends and songs and stories. I don’t remember where I got the idea for packing from, but it seemed like a good one!